


To the Faraway Towns

by dedougal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When communication with Jackson breaks down, Derek chooses to investigate with the pack in tow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Faraway Towns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_fjords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_fjords/gifts).



> (Belated) Happy Birthday to the amazing blue_fjords who is one of the most talented and lovely people in fandom (and in life). Kisses.

It started with one missed phone call, then another. Then there was a garbled message on his phone and, more worryingly, one on Scott’s.

It was when Stiles caught him looking up flight information when he was supposed to be using Stiles’ laptop for research that he finally broke down and admitted it. “I think something is up with Jackson.”

“This is about the voicemail, right?” Stiles dumped his homework off the side of his bed and scooted across to sit on the edge, legs splayed wide. Derek turned back to face the laptop. “You should go.”

“I can’t go. He’s been there for three years.” Derek resolutely closed the tabs and turned back to flicking through pages on basilisks, hoping to hit something that sounded right and less Harry Potter any time now. “It’s not my place.”

“You’re still his alpha?” Stiles shifted closer and Derek could feel the puff his breath against the back of his neck. “And you’re worried?”

“I can’t go without more of my pack. For backup.” Derek could feel the claws itching under his fingernails. He knew his control should be better than this but he was tired and Stiles was just there and he smelled so good.

“If you’re paying.” Stiles bit his lip. Derek could see it in the mirror he was trying not to sneak glances at. “Winter break is coming up soon, is all I’m saying.”

“And your father would have no problem with you skipping out on him to spend time with a former murder suspect, that you accused, and fly to a foreign country.” Derek didn’t need to look to feel Stiles rolling his eyes.

“He knows we’re friends. But no. Lydia. I can say I’m going with Lydia. Because she’d be coming just in case you need the power of her vagina.” Stiles huffed back a laugh. “And I can’t believe I mentioned Lydia and vagina in the same sentence without getting a hard on.”

Derek stretched his hands high above his head, feeling his shirt ride up. Stiles might not have been turned on by the thought of Lydia but there was something earthier, sensual in his scent now. “The power of love, true love. That’s what it was, Stiles.”

“And you believe in true love, you big bad werewolf, you.” Stiles was blinking rapidly, in a way that was probably supposed to be him fluttering his eyelashes.

“Shut up, Stiles.” Derek turned back to the laptop. “Who else am I buying tickets for?”

 

Obviously it wasn’t as easy as all that. But in the end, with help from Melissa and a lot of Lydia twirling her hair down at the station, Stiles was allowed to go to London. Not that his dad could have stopped him – he was legally all adult and shit, as he delighted telling Derek while strolling around with his old plaid shirts stretched too tightly over broadened shoulders, rolled halfway up his forearms to taunt, Derek was sure. But it was easier with co-operation.

Of course, Stiles surviving a thirteen hour flight sitting next to Derek might be less easy. 

 

Derek’s nerves were frayed to near snapping when they entered the loud baggage claim. He hadn’t slept, kept awake by first Stiles’ chatter and then by the hyper awareness of Stiles’ nearness as he sprawled across him, arm and leg pinning Derek in place while his face was smashed into Derek’s neck. Scott had eyed him all too knowingly before he dropped off. Derek hadn’t been the only person awake, but he was pretty sure he was the only one who didn’t dare sleep because he didn’t want to forget a single moment of the way Stiles felt pressed up against him.

So, add in a bucket load of sexual frustration to the exhaustion and the loud, echoing, bright hall.

Stiles pointed him at a seat and danced off, well-rested and high on airplane coffee and excitement to grab bags.

“Jet lag’s a bitch,” Scott said, sounding like a well-seasoned traveler. For all that Derek knew he’d never flown further than Arizona. He turned an eye that was probably naturally red for a change towards Scott. “Or so I hear.” Then he hurried off to help Stiles with the bags.

 

Derek could feel the thread of Jackson’s presence, worn by time and distance but still there in the place in his mind (his heart) that kept pack. He wished he could have talked to someone about what it meant, this awareness that he wasn’t able to do anything useful with, like trace a location when one of them inevitably got kidnapped or was hurt or anything.

Instead Derek let it soothe him as Stiles shoved him into a bed that was entirely too big in a room that was still too loud, traffic and pedestrians and sheer people living on top of each other, office workers and tourists and a whole lot of people who were just there. Derek could hear the rumble of the subway – the underground – and the shouts of people selling theatre tickets and he flashed back to his first night in New York.

Laura would have loved Stiles.

 

Derek woke later. Much later. The street noise was still there but much diminished. He rolled around, lost in the sheets, until he caught sight of the clock on the TV. 3.24am. His watch would still read mid-morning. He ran his hand over his face, trying to work out what had woken him.

There was a click as the door opened. Derek tensed as Stiles slipped in. He smelled of alcohol and sweat and too many people. 

“Derek? You awake?” Stiles sounded…bright. He wasn’t drunk, he was just a little bit buzzed. Tipsy. “Of course not. Because sensible people are asleep. But you’re not known for being sensible.” Stiles continued to ramble as he slid out of his clothes and slipped under the sheets at the far side of the bed. “I have been sexiled from Scott’s room and Lydia refused to share and I’m not getting into the Isaac and Boyd thing and this is a really big bed and you have to promise not to kill me in the morning when you find me here.” Stiles flailed out, his hand slightly uncoordinated and patted at Derek’s hip under the covers.

Derek listened to him fall asleep, little by little until Derek was asleep again.

 

The knocking on the door woke Derek moments before it woke Stiles. He should have known someone was there – shouldn’t have been that deeply asleep. But when Scott shouted through that they were heading down to breakfast and Stiles curled his arm lazily around Derek and rubbed his face between Derek’s shoulder blades.

It was as if they’d jumped a thousand small steps. Derek felt his body turn rigid as Stiles pulled away, rapidly. “I’m gonna go shower.”

Derek kept his eyes shut through the sounds of Stiles throwing on clothes and leaving, refusing to open them, to sneak a peek, to ask Stiles to just stay, to use his shower, maybe with him in it too.

 

London had a peculiar scent. Stiles had tried to get him to explain how places smelled once (and people, and that weird cat his dad had adopted and the laptop. And Uncle Zombie) but Derek couldn’t quite explain it like he wanted and had just shoved Stiles away and told him to go bother someone else. But London… London smelled old. Sure there were new buildings, glass skyscrapers that were almost too short to his critical eye, ugly clunky concrete blocks. But in between them were buildings that dated back before anyone had even broken ground in Beacon Hills.

Stiles wanted to explore, naturally, a cornucopia of glossy leaflets spilling over the table between the coffee mug and some soggy toast. He didn’t look like he’d been partying, dancing somewhere with people who were as young and eager and as ready as him.

Lydia was the one who swept it all aside. “Jackson first. Tourist later.” Stiles grumbled at her between aggressive bites of toast that she’d already been here. Lydia ignored him, tapping away at her phone and pouting when whatever she was doing took too long to work. “We should take the underground to Jackson’s last address.”

“The tube,” Stiles corrected. Derek watched Lydia carefully as she drew in a breath and calmed herself, visible to werewolf eyes only. Probably. Possibly not from the way Stiles ducked his head and shoved the rest of the toast into his mouth.

“A cab. We’ll take a cab,” Derek said, stepping out into the dull morning. It was warm enough, for June. Nothing compared to California. The press of bodies, the exhausts of a hundred thousand vehicles made his head spin for a moment and the thought of being trapped underground with nowhere to run made him queasy. “Then Stiles can sightsee as well. Efficiency.”

 

A headache was building, right behind his left temple. Derek wasn’t sure if it was the journey or being so far away from home or something else. But he definitely didn’t feel like himself. He never felt this way in Beacon Hills, or even in San Francisco. New York had been strange but they’d lived close enough to the park that he could imagine getting lost in all that greenery. There were parks in London, and plenty of trees. But he was still uneasy.

“I think something might be wrong with Jackson,” he ground out, suddenly locating the pulse of pain. Derek curled his hand around the yellow grab bar and tried to choke back his nausea. He faintly heard Lydia reassuring the driver but all he could feel was Stiles grabbing at his shoulder and the pain swelling to a crescendo before dropping off, diminishing. It didn’t fade completely.

“So that’s new,” Stiles said, close to Derek’s ear. Derek could feel his heart beating rapidly and he looked down to check his hands weren’t flashing claw. Instead he had his hand wrapped around Stiles’ thigh, dark against his light pants. “You gonna be able to walk, because I think that we’re about to be deposited on the side of the road.”

Derek loosened his grip on Stiles’ leg but still left his hand there. “I’m fine.” Stiles made a disagreeing noise but kept his peace as Lydia sweet talked the cab driver into dropping them at Jackson’s front door. Scott and Allison, Boyd and Isaac showed up a few minutes later but Derek had already knocked and got no answer.

Lydia nodded at the gathered crowd and pulled out her key. Stiles groaned quietly, smashing his head against Scott’s shoulder and then moving on to bend down to lean on Derek’s as Scott moved away.

 

“He’s not been here for a while,” Isaac said, spinning around. Derek agreed – none of the scents in the house were fresh, not even Jackson’s parents. Stiles pointed to an itinerary pinned to an obsessively neat corkboard which detailed an exciting week in Prague for Jackson’s parents. And Lydia just sniffed judgmentally as Derek flipped through Jackson’s closet and Stiles switched on his laptop.

“You got his phone number?” Derek startled at that, used to the oppressive quiet of the house. There was still the wider city out there, noise and smell and weird heat, but this enclave of quiet leafy streets seemed to be protected in some kind of bubble. Stiles tapped away as everyone gathered, leaning against walls, in the doorway. “He’s not far away. Three streets over.” Stiles met Derek’s eyes first, pointing at a blinking red dot.

It started to rain when they stepped outside. 

Even the rain felt different. It wasn’t all at once but a gentle, pervasive drizzle that seemed to make him more soaked than any downpour. Already Stiles’ hair was starting to droop. Scott’s just looked ridiculously messy. Lydia pulled out an umbrella from her oversize purse and looked determined.

“We haven’t got any weapons,” Allison pointed out as they followed Lydia along the sidewalk. The paving stones were lifted here and there by the roots of the trees lining the street. Derek caught Stiles’ arm when he tripped, holding him upright. Stiles flashed him a tight smile in thanks, reeking of anxiety and adrenaline. 

“Not like we can just walk into a sporting goods store. Wonder if Jackson’s parents would have a gun? Like, under the bed?” Stiles went into a harangue on weapons laws in the UK, something he’d obviously spent a bit of time on Wikipedia with. Derek let the noise wash over him, the sound fill him up. He could feel the muscles at the back of his neck loosening, weirdly. There was something under his skin that was easing at the thought of his pack all together again. Jackson was alive, he knew that at least, and close by.

 

Jackson’s phone led them to a coffee shop, barely open from the grimace the girl behind the counter threw them. Undeterred, Stiles ordered for them all, occupying her with soya and syrups. Derek turned his back, feigning a look out of the window as he breathed in the space. There was a door to the right of the counter and harsh, uneven breathing coming from somewhere below. Derek jerked the door open, ignored the girl’s shout and pounded down the revealed steps. Boyd and Scott were at his back and Derek roared as he kicked the door at the bottom open.

Jackson was there, sprawled on the floor and broken. Above him, a strange alpha, face twisted beyond even the usual ugliness of transformation leered at them. “Guess who showed up after all, Jackson.”

Betas pushed themselves off the wall, eyes flashing blue and yellow. There was even a human with them, twirling a length of steel pipe. Derek tried a roar, thinking to warn them off. Scott joined in, letting his eyes flash red. That made one of the betas pause, even more when Boyd let his own eyes transform.

Derek didn’t wait to see if any of the others were ready to turn tail and run. Instead he pushed off, slamming into the other alpha. He felt claws puncture his shirt as he dodged out of the way and used his own to slice through flesh. He could feel the others throwing themselves into the fray, Isaac shedding his puppy dog exterior to tear and rip and slice. They might be outnumbered but it didn’t seem like it mattered as his pack beat back the others into a mewling, pathetic, cowering group, huddled in the corner, their alpha dangling off the floor as Derek held him effortlessly in midair.

Stiles and Allison held Jackson up between them as Lydia fussed over him. Derek jerked his chin at the door and they started making their way up the steps.

“Leave him alone.” Derek didn’t need to yell the words so his tone was almost conversational. Conversational with an edge of’ I’ll rip your lungs out if you don’t’. Then he tossed the defeated alpha into the wall, his body leaving a spider web of cracks on impact. The rest of the betas cowered as he raked his eyes over them before following the others.

His coffee was still warm when he picked it up, saluted the girl with it and headed out. 

 

Jackson was quiet when Derek went in to see him. Stiles had frowned as he went passed, washcloth in his hands but Derek needed to see that Jackson was recovering first. The pain in his head had nearly completely subsided and vanished altogether as Jackson rubbed his face against Derek’s palm, too far gone to do anything else. It was a little overwhelming because they’d been apart so long.

Lydia chased him out after a few minutes, her face grim. Derek didn’t want to get in the way of that particular reunion any more than he already had. They could talk later, if they had to.

Stiles was still waiting for him, pacing in the hallway. He dragged Derek into a bathroom that was luxuriously appointed, if not exactly spacious. At least that was the excuse Derek gave himself as Stiles pressed forward against him, checking the rapidly healing wounds and wiping away the blood from Derek’s skin. He could do this for himself but there was something about being looked after that made him weak, give in. He didn’t pull back or shift away and he kept looking when Stiles slid his eyes sideways. Maybe it was the fact he was in a strange place, a strange city, country. A whole other continent.

 

Dressed in one of Jackson’s way too trendy and expensive shirts, Derek watched as the rain blew over and a blustery blue sky, patched with clouds took its place. His pack all seemed settled, licking their wounds by raiding Jackson’s fridge and criticizing the TV. Same as back home, Derek supposed. Hundreds of channels and nothing to watch.

Stiles was quiet, not paying attention to the bickering over the remote or even particularly bothering about a fight he’d usually be winning. Instead he was biting his lip, rolling his hands in his lap – all precursors to him saying something. Something big if he had to work up to it like this. Suddenly Derek needed air. He needed out of this confining artificial home, nothing more than a house pretending to be warm and welcoming.

Jackson and Lydia were still talking, upstairs, voices softening minute by minute. “Scott, you okay here?”

Scott looked round with a puzzled look which cleared as he looked between Derek and the strangely oblivious Stiles. “Yeah.” Allison snagged the remote from him and settled on some cooking show.

It took a couple of moments to grab Stiles’ attention but he was happy enough to follow Derek out into the street. They walked in silence to the end of the block and Derek hailed a cab, stepping back to avoid the wave of water raised by the puddle it splashed through. He and Stiles settled into the black interior, the bench seat wide between them. “Buckingham Palace. Please.”

The taxi driver seemed to catch their mood as he drove them through busier and busier streets, finally stopping beside a high wall topped with solid black metal spikes and barbed wire. “Just round there, mate.”

Derek handed over a bill and waited for his change while Stiles hopped out onto the sidewalk and gawped like the small town hick he was. Derek was suddenly glad he was doing this. “Got your camera?”

“On my phone.” Stiles rubbernecked as they made their way around to the iron gates, gilt edged this time, to perhaps make them less frightening. Derek spent more time watching Stiles take pictures of everything than looking at the building – it was big and white and looked just like it did on TV. He was happy – and that made it seem better. “Where next?” Stiles demanded, after he’d snapped a thousand pictures.

“Wherever you want,” Derek answered, already strolling up the broad street towards the archway he could see in the distance. He was pretty sure there would be something to look at up there. “Whatever you want.”

Stiles didn’t follow him. Instead he glued his feet to the pavement and just stared at Derek. “For real? So if I wanted to, like, suggest that we went back to the hotel where none of our super-hearing having friends are right now, you’d come?”

“I thought you wanted to sightsee. Be a tourist.” Derek gestured at the grand palace behind them. “Are you tired?” He took a step closer to Stiles, wondering if he should feel his forehead. Maybe Stiles had caught something on the plane.

“Nope.” Stiles made the sound pop. “Maybe not though.”

Derek thought back over the way Stiles had looked at him, half-hopeful. He replayed the words in his head. “You slept in my bed.”

“And you were asleep and I was kinda drunk and everyone would be able to hear. Not, you know, Erica and Lydia. But I’m not Scott and I don’t really want anyone hearing us and I kinda thought you were into me too and that’s what all the looks were about -” Stiles didn’t seem like he was going to run out of breath anytime soon and, while he was sorely tempted to see what would happen if he didn’t stop Stiles, he decided enough was enough.

“Yes.” Derek watched Stiles screech to a halt.

Then he took a deep breath and started off again. “Yes, what? You are just so frustrating with your stubble and your kittenish affection and the way you are so determined to look after everyone even when they don’t decide it or need it and the fact you…” Stiles ran out of words himself, glaring at Derek fiercely.

“Yes.” Derek crossed the distance between them, aware people were beginning to stare. “To the hotel. And to the rest.”

“The rest?” Stiles started to drop his mask of bravado and Derek was aware of the fear that was lurking underneath.

“Everything you didn’t say. About the fact this won’t stop when we go back home and I won’t pretend it didn’t happen.” Derek finally let himself touch Stiles, his hand brushing against the back of Stiles’ own hand, not quite asking for hand holding but not far off it. “About the fact this has probably been a long time coming.”

“You wouldn’t have been ready.” It could have been a question but Stiles made it a statement. “Me, on the other hand.” He grinned up at Derek, relief making him relax where he hadn’t been earlier, his shoulders loose and easy.

“Sure you wouldn’t rather play tourist?” Derek started moving, trusting Stiles to follow him as he cut across the street, heading for the traffic he could hear, the shouts of “Taxi!”.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for this?” Stiles caught up with him and had his hand outstretched before Derek did, fumbling his way into a cab and looking with eyes that were bright and enchanting and eager. And ready. Derek settled back into the seat and watched out the window, his hand entwined with Stiles’ on the space between them. Stiles sprawled out, his knees wide, and he knocked his knee against Derek’s.

 

Stiles stopped caring about noise by round four. He laughed gleefully at the abusive text message from Scott and showed it to Derek who didn’t want Stiles caring about Scott right now. And it turned out he knew the perfect distraction as he worked Stiles’ cock to hardness again.

He’d bring Stiles back to London one day, take him to Paris too. Maybe even Australia. Definitely Hawaii. And New York. He’d show Stiles New York the way only someone who lived there can. Stiles tangled his hand in Derek’s hair as he nuzzled at Stiles’ cock, drinking in his scent now he was allowing himself, being allowed by Stiles to finally do this.

He had plans about what they’d do back home too.


End file.
